They know so little why the world is sad,

They dig themselves warm graves and yet are glad ; Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad!

I long to go and play among them there;
Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair,
And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair.

The happy children! full of frank surprise,
And sudden whims and innocent ecstasies;
What godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes!

No wonder round those urns of mingled clays
That Tuscan potters fashioned in old days,
And coloured like the torrid earth ablaze,

We find the little gods and loves portrayed,
Through ancient forests wandering undismayed,
And fluting hymns of pleasure unafraid.

They knew, as I do now, what keen delight,
A strong man feels to watch the tender flight
Of little children playing in his sight;

What pure sweet pleasure, and what sacred love,
Comes drifting down upon us from above,
In watching how their limbs and features move.

I do not hunger for a well-stored mind,
I only wish to live my life, and find
My heart in unison with all mankind.

My life is like the single dewy star
That trembles on the horizon's primrose-bar,-
A microcosm where all things living are.

And if, among the noiseless grasses, Death
Should come behind and take away my breath,
I should not rise as one who sorroweth ;

For I should pass, but all the world would be
Full of desire and young delight and glee,
And why should men be sad through loss of me?

The light is flying; in the silver-blue

The young moon shines from her bright window

through:

The mowers are all gone,

and I

go too.

the return oF THE SWALLOWS

"Out in the meadows the young grass springs, Shivering with sap," said the larks, “and we Shoot into air with our strong young wings, Spirally up over level and lea;

Come, O Swallows, and fly with us

Now that horizons are luminous !

Evening and morning the world of light,
Spreading and kindling, is infinite!"

Far away, by the sea in the south,

The hills of olive and slopes of fern Whiten and glow in the sun's long drouth, Under the heavens that beam and burn; And all the swallows were gathered there Flitting about in the fragrant air,

And heard no sound from the larks, but flew Flashing under the blinding blue.

Out of the depths of their soft rich throats
Languidly fluted the thrushes, and said:
"Musical thought in the mild air floats,
Spring is coming and winter is dead!
Come, O Swallows, and stir the air,
For the buds are all bursting unaware,

And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees long
To hear the sound of your low sweet song."

Over the roofs of the white Algiers,

Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar, Flitted the swallows, and not one hears

The call of the thrushes from far, from far;

Sighed the thrushes; then, all at once,
Broke out singing the old sweet tones,
Singing the bridal of sap and shoot,
The tree's slow life between root and fruit.

But just when the dingles of April flowers
Shine with the earliest daffodils,

When, before sunrise, the cold clear hours
Gleam with a promise that noon fulfils,-
Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried,
Perched on a spray by a rivulet-side,

Swallows, O Swallows, come back again
To swoop and herald the April rain.

And something awoke in the slumbering heart Of the alien birds in their African air,

And they paused, and alighted, and twittered apart,

And met in the broad white dreamy square, And the sad slave woman, who lifted up From the fountain her broad-lipped earthen cup, Said to herself, with a weary sigh,

"To-morrow the swallows will northward fly!"

THE CHARCOAL-BURNER

He lives within the hollow wood,

From one clear dell he seldom ranges ; His daily toil in solitude

Revolves, but never changes.

A still old man, with grizzled beard,

Grey eye, bent shape, and smoke-tanned features, His quiet footstep is not feared

By shyest woodland creatures.

I love to watch the pale blue spire
His scented labour builds above it;
I track the woodland by his fire,
And, seen afar, I love it.

It seems among the serious trees
The emblem of a living pleasure,

It animates the silences

As with a tuneful measure.

And dream not that such humdrum ways

Fold naught of nature's charm around him;